You Look Good In My Shirt
by Flutiez
Summary: Eileen lounges about the apartment on a snowy day, freezing. So she finds warmth in one of Rigby's shirts, and he isn't bothered by it not one bit.


**A/N: Characters here are human.**

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_You Look Good In My Shirt_

-(~)-

Ice crinkles and snaps around the glass of the windows. They poke from the frames of every single millimeter like minuscule knives, as if waiting for frosty warriors to come and wield their frozen weapons for battle. I smile to myself at the thought; it just seems too cute to imagine things like that, doesn't it?

It's as low as sixteen degrees today, with the exception of a harsh snow storm outside. I know that Rigby is out working, shoveling snow or doing whatever miserably cold job his boss Benson has in store for him and Mordecai. I feel bad for those boys, me and Margaret both. She has a shift at the Coffee Shop from seven thirty in the morning until eleven tonight, but my boss has given me a day off due to my cold.

My temperature is one hundred-and-four, though I'm still freezing my ass off in this little apartment. I'm wearing the warmest, thickest pair of pajama bottoms that I could find. Somehow the chill is still able to creep its icy claws through and scratch at my bare legs underneath. I didn't want to do any more laundry today (I had just done two loads, for crying out loud), so that's why I'm not wearing a second pair.

But my rather thin cream-colored sweater isn't exactly helping keeping my top from catching hypothermia, either. I shake and shiver underneath it as I take some more medicine, letting the bubble-gum-flavored pink liquid waterfall down my throat so that I don't have to taste it.

Come on, we all know the bubble gum medicine is a lie.

It tastes _nothing_ like bubble gum. How _disgusting._

I make myself some hot chocolate, because coffee has become rather gross for me lately, and adding a bit of chocolate syrup for extra taste and then make my way to our bed room. The queen-sized bed is made, the sheets no longer a tangled mess upon the mattress. Rigby tosses and turns so much at night, you would not believe. Ugh.

Still, the guy can't fall asleep without clinging to something for dear life. And that dear thing always happens to be me, so I don't mind. I stroll over to the closet and look through my array of shirts. Nothing but short-sleeves and tank tops. There's something about pre-winter snow days that just really tick me off; because it's so sudden that you can't get to the store and buy yourself some winter clothes, you know? And what's worse is that it always happens in this town. The weather here is very strange, indeed.

I happen to glance at Rigby's side of the closet. I quirk a brow in curiosity, thinking if I should look through his clothes to find something more suitable for me to wear in order to keep warm. I wonder if he would get mad at me for wearing his clothes.

Disregarding that thought, I remind myself that Rigby could care less about who did what with his brother's hand-me-downs from middle school, and that since I do all the laundry around here, that I can wear whatever I please! I know it's a lame excuse, but Rigby clearly has warmer long-sleeved shirts than I, and I'm a sick person who's practically chilled to the marrow, so he owes me a good solid, no?

I take a few steps so that I am standing right in front of his assortment of various t-shirts and ripped or frayed jeans a little too big for him. Now, here's the deal: Me and Rigby are both scrawny, fragile-looking beings. Seriously, he's a five-foot-four-inch toothpick with a small, near triangular torso, but still has rather long limbs for his body type in general. He and I are about the exact same height, and both weigh less than a hundred-and-twenty pounds. We're also both brunettes, though my hair is lighter than his by several shades. Whereas his hair is a mixture of milk and dark-chocolate, split in half with the darker shade taking place on the lower part of his head along the side-burns, mine is somewhere between light brown and dirty blonde. It's still pretty funny how two people who are nearly the exact same in physical appearance can still be so different as individuals.

Oh, well, I guess I should just be thankful for the convenience. I mean, I've finally met someone the same height as _me_!

So anyways, back to the wonderland of Rigby's sweaters.

Most of what he owns is dark, either brown or black, maybe a touch of red here and there. Most of his shirts are T's, with phrases or simple pictures printed on them. I smile, seeing a Christmas sweater that I knitted for him last year. It was a thing me and Margaret did; she made one for Mordecai while I made one for Rigby.

Neither of them seemed happy with the gifts. Poor Mordo got too hot in his and Rigby just felt humiliated and downcast in the thing he found a Monstrosity of the Holidays. Oh, but he was just so cute when he was upset! His cheeks just get a little pink, and his strong jaw sets itself to the right while he grumps about. It's just pure adorable-ness.

My eyes avert from the sweater and instead land upon a long-sleeved t-shirt. The shirt is double-sleeved, with the longer ones laced into the shorter ones at the hem colored a dark cream, and the top layer as well the whole rest of the piece of clothing a muddy brown. Printed on the front is what looks like a game controller, with little shapes of what seems to be buttons askew over the rest of the shirt.

_It looks perfect, _I think to myself. Rigby and I are both known for being complete game nerds, though Rigby likes the term '_gamer_' rather than '_nerd_'. Holding the shirt between my forefinger and thumb, I gently unhook it from the closet hanger and throw it onto the bed with a soft flop. I close the closet, and then slip off my own too-thin sweater. As I lift Rigby's over my head, I can smell the cologne that's embedded into the fabric. I take a big whiff and savor it, enjoying the scent of it as well as the earthy, slightly sweaty one that is Rigby himself.

My head pops through the hole and I turn myself to look at the mirror on our dresser. The shirt's sleeves reach just beyond my wrists and the bottom hem nearly reaches my knees. I never realized how tiny my frame was compared to Rigby. It was like, being a man, he somehow has a strange buff-ness among his muscles that I don't have. He has been working harder at the park, and I think that might be helping out quite a bit. Believe me, I'm not complaining.

I jump when I hear the click of the front door opening. The hallways around the apartment building are all exterior, meaning they're all expanding from the outside. So following whoever is entering right now is a sharp gust of icy wind. I shiver again, feeling my skin tighten with goose bumps.

But then I realize that the love of my life is home, and I even hear him whistling to himself from our room. It's a tune from one of his favorite bands, _Fist Pump._ "Eileen! I'm home!" he calls in his friendly voice. Strange, I say to myself in my head: Rigby of all people would be pissed and tired after taking an eight-hour shift shoveling snow and scraping icicles off of gutters.

"Hey, honey!" I coo as I walk up to him. We greet each other with a cute peck on the lips. "Ah!"

"What's wrong?" he asks amusingly as he hangs up his heavy coat on the coat-rack. That's a thing between us; we know what the other might be feeling by even the smallest hint in our voices or body language.

"Your lips are cold." Covering my own mouth with my hand, I grab the blanket off the couch and wrap it around him. He kind of sinks into it right there before letting out an exhausted sigh and sitting down on the sofa. His hair is full of melting snow, and his cheeks are a light shade of red. I can see his fingers tremble while he holds the blanket around him.

"All of you seems cold, actually," I rephrase. "Do you want some hot chocolate? I can make some."

He shakes his head in response. "It's cool, Eileen. I'm okay. Just want to relax, ya know?" Rigby scoots down to one cushion leaving a space open. He pats the other cushion with his cold hand. "Come on, come sit with me. There's a game on tonight!"

I look down at him quizzically, almost cautiously sitting down next to him as he scrolls through the channels. He found the game he was so excited about, only to find that it was during half-time. Rigby and I both cringe when we see it is Justin Bieber singing for the show, and we laugh as Rigby mutes the television.

"God I hate that guy . . . or should I say girl?" Rigby says. Silence rains down on the both of us, with me resting my head on the arm of the couch and Rigby placing his head against the back. After a few more moments of neither one of us talking, I begin to feel a familiar yet also very strange sensation. It's that feeling of unease when you feel you're being watched. But I know the one who's watching me isn't someone I should be afraid of.

"What is it?" I ask with my eyes closed. I feel his fingers encase around me hip and I tremble at how cold he still feels underneath the fabric.

"You're wearing my shirt . . ." Rigby trails off. I can tell that he's probably furrowing an eyebrow, tilting his head to one side like a curious kitten. He's just like that. It's like sometimes he acts as if he still doesn't know me too well, and he becomes demanding or even offensive. But like I said, he gets too cute when he's upset.

"Ye—" But before I can finish my sentence, I'm pulled over and am now on top of a chilly heap of Rigby. He smiles at me and holds my hand. He picks up the remote and, without looking, turns off the TV all together. Now the silence is humming with knowledge and want.

I giggle. "Rigby, you're gonna miss your game." His eyes close softly, his face goes soft, and then he pushes me down gently and my mouth falls into place with his. As usual, every bit of my soul seems to melt, molding in with his and it feels like pulling away would be like tearing both of our hearts apart. Suddenly, when we kiss, it's like the vast universe of stars and soft colors are swimming around us. We are the last people on earth when our lips touch.

I feel his wet tongue glide across my teeth; it means he wants in. So I let him. His hand reaches up and touches my face, then slides down to my arm where grips the shirt sleeve with such vigor when I crevice my digits around from underneath him, tying my fingers into the loops of his jeans. I feel my head begin to haze, and I remember to breathe through my nose, and the fireworks clear for just a little bit.

Rigby leaves with his signature move. He pulls away, smacking against my lips like he's taking a bite out of a ripe peach, and then pushing his teeth down into my lower lip. I gasp, punctuating my blush with a noise. Rigby says that my blushes are one of the cutest things about me.

However, my signature is much different. As soon as we part, I always land a firm kiss on the underside of his jaw. It always makes him hug me like I hug him when we're . . . well, I won't go into that. As I do this, Rigby whispers into my ear like it's a song, like it's a prayer, as he firmly grips the hem of his t-shirt along my thigh, "You look good in my shirt." His voice is manufactured to have a hearty southern drawl.

I lift my head and look into his eyes, which are large and obsidian and always have dark rings underneath them no matter how good of a nights' sleep he gets. I cup his cheek in my hand, the stubble about it prickling my skin. Rigby closes his eyes and smiles, letting out a sigh that I catch the scent of coffee and ice flowing upon.

"Thanks, Keith," I say.

-(~)-

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**I've decided that from now on I'm going to put that little -(~)- thing in between titles and the dialogue of the story/chapters/one-shots. Anyway, this is based off the song _You Look Good In My Shirt _by Keith Urban. It's one of my favorite country songs, and Keith Urban was also pretty much the first country singer I ever listened to, so this fic is pretty special to me.**

**Designs of human Rigby go to RoughReaill on deviantart.**

**R&R please. **

**I'm out~**


End file.
